The Many Weather Patterns of Glitch and Ambrose
by JacksBoonie
Summary: CainAmbrose. "You're not sad because it rains, love." Cain closes his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath and revealing what he had realized many, many weeks ago. "It rains because you're sad."
1. Rain

AN: I've had this story lying around for quite some time and decided that it needed posting. I'm not sure if anyone out there is still into the Tin Man craze (I know it's passed me by a little bit), but it's nice to reminisce, yes? Enjoy!

Chapter One: Rain

Ambrose sighs and rubs at his temple, staring down at the equations coating several pieces of parchment and much of the desk. The grim weather is doing absolutely nothing for his headache. The O.Z. has been in a particularly foul mood as a whole since the re-induction of the royal family—not because of the induction itself but because of the rain; the massive amounts of rain that have been flooding their lands and making it near impossible to go anywhere or do anything. And the blame lies solely on Ambrose's shoulders.

The witch's recalibration of the Sunseeder has sent all weather patterns into disarray, thus resulting in the rain. And the fact that Ambrose's brain has not yet properly settled isn't helping any. He's been writing non-stop for weeks, everything that his memories will push forward. He knows the answer is somewhere. Really, he does. It's just . . . difficult to find.

The inventor sighs again and brushes the papers off of his desk in frustration, burying his face in his hands and whimpering. He wants to scream, to throw something, break something, _shoot _something. He wants to run away and let someone else handle this mess. He wants someone—anyone—for once to look him square in the eye and say—

"It's not your fault, headcase."

Ambrose draws in a sharp breath as the deep, husky voice reverberates off the looming walls. Shadows dance around the room as fire flickers in the fireplace. A pair of warm arms snake around the inventor's middle, and he instinctively leans back into the firm chest as a mouth nuzzles the side of his neck.

"You know that, don't you?" the voice murmurs into his ear, and a shiver runs up the inventor's spine.

"It's nice to be lied to every once in a while," Ambrose breathes exhaustedly. He groans in protest as the warm arms slither away and he is turned on the spinning stool to meet a pair of concerned blue eyes.

Cain's hands come up, his palms pressed gently to the other man's flushed cheeks and his fingers stringing into the mass of disheveled dark curls. "It's not your fault," the tin man assures him sternly. "No one blames you."

Ambrose huffs, a hysterical chuckle breaking free of his throat as he grasps Cain's wrists and pulls the man's hands from his face. Looking down, he shakes his head. "_Everyone _blames me, Wyatt. It's my device. It's my mess to clean."

"You didn't build it," Cain protests, his anger projecting onto the one man that least deserves it.

"Oh, but I showed them how," the inventor counters, meeting the tin man's intense gaze and giving him a defeated look. "I showed them exactly how to hurt the O.Z., all its weak points. I delivered our downfall into their hands."

Cain shakes his head. "You saved us. You're the reason we're still breathing, why we can rebuild and heal and start new."

"Then why is it still raining?" Ambrose demands angrily, standing and pushing past the tin man. He stops in front of the fireplace, bracing himself against the mantel above with both hands and leaning in toward the warm flames.

Cain suppresses a sigh, lifting his hat and rubbing at his short blond hair. Replacing the hat, he cautiously makes his way over to the distraught man, leaning one shoulder against the mantel to watch his lover. The tears on Ambrose's cheeks glitter against the firelight. Like the raindrops on the windows across the room, they slip freely down the length of his face, dripping from his chin and splattering against the hardwood floor.

"You should sleep," Cain suggests quietly. "You can't wear yourself down like this."

"I have to fix what I broke, Wyatt," Ambrose mumbles, yawning despite his persistence. The tin man smiles, gently leading the inventor to the couch-turned-makeshift-bed on the other side of the room. He sits him down, removing his shoes and coat, doing the same himself, and tucking them both beneath a large, red comforter, Ambrose's head safely nestled beneath his chin.

"So sad, Wyatt," the inventor murmurs sleepily, his breath puffing warmly against Cain's skin. "Why am I so sad when it rains?"

Sighing sadly and pressing a kiss to the other's temple, the tin man whispers, "You're not sad because it rains, love." He closes his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath and revealing what he had realized many, many weeks ago. "It rains because you're sad."

Ambrose shifts, pressing himself further into Cain's side and releasing a satisfied huff as he slips into blissful sleep.

AN: Why, yes, that last line said by Cain _is _in fact jacked from **_Men in Black II_. Thank you for noticing. :)**


	2. Fog

AN: And just because this wasn't on the first chapter . . .

Disclaimer: I do not own the television miniseries _Tin Man_. I do not own the characters of the television miniseries _Tin Man_.

Chapter Two: Fog

Ambrose is lost.

And Cain knows Ambrose is lost because a thick, dense cloud of mist shrouds the palace grounds. Ever since the discovery, with Raw's help, of the Sunseeder's true design—to feed off of the inventor's emotions and convert them into weather patterns—Ambrose has been considerably easier to understand . . . and considerably harder to please.

Cain has begged the viewer to keep the discovery between them. Ambrose is the only one who can fix the Sunseeder, and if he knows that his emotions are the reason the O.Z. is suffering, things will be chaotic. The faster the machine is shut off, the faster everything will return to normal.

But things cannot be normal if Ambrose is lost. In fact, things will only be made worse, so Cain puts it upon himself to find the headcase.

It doesn't take long. When Ambrose is lost, he does not tend to wander far from his lab. Cain finds him in the stairwell, sitting cross-legged in the corner of the landing between flights with his shoulders hunched and his chin resting precariously in the palm of his hand.

"There you are," the tin man breathes easily, his anxiety quelling some. "I've been looking for you."

Ambrose looks up, startled by the sudden presence. "You have?" he asks warily as the tin man takes a seat beside him.

"Well, of course." Cain smiles genuinely, knowing how to handle the inventor when he _glitches_. The alchemists warned them that it will happen from time to time. The queen has been utterly distraught since hearing the news, but Cain, DG, and Raw have taken it in stride, somewhat relieved that a piece of their old friend will forever be imprinted on the man known as Ambrose. "Who else would I be looking for?"

The skepticism in the inventor's eyes does not waver as he timidly asks, "Do I know you?"

Cain has answered this question many times, and he is hardly fazed by it anymore. The words are so ingrained, in fact, that they seem etched onto the tip of his tongue. "Sure you do, Sweetheart."

The fog from Ambrose's uncertain eyes lifts—as the fog from around the palace does, Cain is sure—and the inventor smiles brightly. "Wyatt!" He lunges into the tin man's lap, hugging him fiercely. "You found me!"

Cain lets loose a hearty chuckle, wrapping solid arms around his headcase and reveling in the inventor's scent. "I'll always find you, Ambrose."


	3. Snow

Chapter Three: Snow

Snow is a rare thing outside the winter season. So when Cain wakes alone one summer morning to find the palace covered in a thick sheet of white—fat flakes riding whipping winds—only one name falls past his lips in a rushed gust of expelled breath.

"Ambrose."

He quickly dresses himself and starts down the main palace corridor in search of the other man. His lab will be the most obvious place, of course, seeing as he is never anywhere else if he is awake—and most often times asleep.

Passing by one of the corridor's many wall-heighth windows, however, he catches sight of something that clashes harshly against the snowy grounds. Halting abruptly, his boots squeak sharply, and he squints past the blanket of falling snow to find Ambrose standing out in the gardens. Snow has piled up around his feet in small mounds, indicating he has been outside for quite some time.

The tin man growls as he notices the inventor's lack of proper winter-wear—Ambrose is clothed only in a long pair of pajama pants and a red and black striped shirt.

Cain hurries outside, shrugging out of his coat as he approaches the other and wrapping it around the inventor's pale, shivering form. "Ambrose, what is Ozma's name do you think you're doing?" he scolds, attempting to guide the other man back into the palace. Ambrose's feet stay planted, however, and Cain grows even more frustrated with the lack of cooperation. "Ambrose, I don't have time for—"

"I was in my lab," the inventor states weakly, as if that is the answer the tin man has been searching for.

Cain gives a small huff of impatience. "When aren't you?" he mutters, trying again to move the man and failing.

Ambrose either does not hear him or chooses to ignore him because he continues: "It was only for a moment...I don't know why I was reminded of it. It was just—there." Cain frowns, trying to make sense of the inventor's words and failing miserably. "When I was six annuals, I wandered into the woods surrounding our home. It was snowing, and everything looked the same. I couldn't find my way back."

The tin man is silent. Ambrose rarely speaks of his life before the palace, and Cain doesn't think the other man has ever recalled anything from his childhood—at least not aloud.

Ambrose sucks in deep breath, white mist expelling past his lips in stuttered gusts before he swallows and goes on. "I sat and shivered in the cold until dark. I was so sure that I would never see my family again." He laughs witheringly, shaking his head and sighing deeply. The chilly air burns his lungs. The more he talks, the more breathless he becomes. "Then there was a light in the distance; my father's voice filled the darkness, and I was found."

_It's like a fairytale_, Cain thinks. He can picture Ambrose, small and scared, huddled against a tree and trembling from the cold. He can see tears on his little face, glistening as they turn to frost. The inventor's story is vivid, lyrical.

"Your father rescued you from the dark," the tin man murmurs, rubbing a hand up and down Ambrose's back.

"I was in my lab," Ambrose repeats his earlier statement, his thoughts still elsewhere. "I thought about that day, with my father and the snow." He sways slightly, Cain having to steady him. "It was only for a moment, but when I looked up, it was snowing outside." The tin man's stomach drops, his soothing gesture ceasing, and Ambrose's tone becomes increasingly bitter. "And I thought to myself, 'What a strange coincidence.'" Cain winces, resisting the urge to step away. "But there seem to be quite a few coincidences lately."

Ambrose turns on the other man, his face set grimly and his voice just above a whisper as he says, "I'm doing this, aren't I? Everything that's been happening—it's my fault."

"Ambrose," Cain shakes his head, gently placing his hands on the man's shoulders, "none of this is—"

The inventor steps back out of Cain's reach. "And you knew," he accuses, his deep brown eyes full of hurt and anger. "You've known all along, and you didn't say anything. Not one word."

The winds change, suddenly, and a very bad feeling begins to brew in the pit of Cain's stomach.


	4. Wind

AN: Short one. But the next one is longer to make up for it. :)

Chapter Four: Wind

"This is why I didn't say anything!" Cain is forced to shout over the howling wind. Snow whips into their faces, and the tin man has to reach one hand up to keep his hat in place.

"You didn't think I could handle this!" Ambrose yells back, Cain's heavy brown coat falling from his shoulders to the ground.

The tin man bites the inside of his cheek, his eyebrows furrowing before he answers. "No."

The wind dies. There is no winding down, no few dying wisps curling up into the air in protest. _Nothing_. Everything is still, quiet, and the inventor stares at Cain like the blond-haired man has slapped him.

"'No'?" he repeats in a strained tone. "You . . . You don't . . ."

Cain shakes his head reluctantly. "No. I don't." He watches Ambrose's eyes cloud over, and there is another shift in the atmosphere.


	5. Frost

AN: Wow! Didn't think this story was going to get any reviews. Thanks so much! I'm glad you're enjoying, and I hope these last two chapters don't disappoint. :) Enjoy!

Chapter Five: Frost

Cain shivers, wrapping his arms around himself to find his exposed skin and clothing covered in a thin sheet of frost. "A-Ambr-rose?" His teeth chatter, and he coughs violently as the cold air reaches his lungs. He is freezing from the inside-out. "Ambr-ros-se, y-y-you have to . . . st-stop."

The inventor does not move, his dark form swallowed by his own doing. Cain drops to his knees, the intensity of the cold becoming more than he can stand. He can't breathe; his lungs are freezing, and the chill is eating up any oxygen it can find.

The tin man hunches in on himself, trying to use his stiff sleeve as a filter against the cold, but to no avail. Before he is able to take a second breath, he is unconscious.

0 o 0 o 0

Cain wakes with a start, drawing in as deep a breath as his raw lungs will allow. He coughs, wincing as a metallic tang bubbles into the back of his throat.

"Take it easy, Cain," a soft voice coaxes above him, and he squints his eyes open, meeting DG's concerned face. She smiles wanly and takes hold of his hand. Her skin burns against his, but he clenches her hand anyway. "We were worried about you." Realizing he can't yet process how to make his vocal cords function well enough to make noises beyond squeaks and grunts, Cain's eyebrows furrow in question. "We only just got to you and Ambrose in time, and if Raw hadn't been here . . ." Her lips purse as she tries not to think about how that sentence could end.

The tin man closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing. "Ambrose?" he manages past cracked lips, his voice frog-like.

DG glances over her shoulder, turning back to him with an apprehensive look. She bites her lip before she replies, "He hasn't spoken yet. He won't even move. He just . . . lays there."

Cain's eyesight is drawn to one of the infirmary windows, where he sees nothing but ice crystals, black and jagged, stretched across the glass like distorted fingers. He frowns grimly. "What time is it?"

DG shrugs, following his line of sight. "Afternoon, we think. The palace is covered in ice. It's too thick to see through."

Readying himself for his next course of action, the tin man gulps down a large breath. Pain shoots through every part of his body as he tries to sit up. The princess quickly presses a gentle hand to his chest.

"Cain, please don't try to get up. You're still hurt."

But Cain will not be deterred. He grits his teeth, sitting up and hunching over in an attempt to catch his breath. "I have to see him," he pants, pushing the warm blankets aside and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He sits in no more than a clean pair of trousers, and he nearly blushes at the thought of the nurses seeing him stark naked. But there are more pressing matters at hand.

With DG's reluctant help, he makes his way off the bed and shuffles to Ambrose, grateful that the headcase's bed is very near his own. He unceremoniously plops himself beside Ambrose on the bed, thanking DG absently before she turns and leaves the room.

"Ambrose?" the tin man whispers, running his fingers through the mess of curls. The sleeping inventor's eyes flutter, but he does not wake, and Cain sighs, finding he doesn't have the heart to bring him back to consciousness. Instead, he opts to lean forward and place a kiss on Ambroses's slightly parted lips, whispering, "I only did it to protect you."

"I don't need protecting," the inventor argues, his tone laced with exhaustion. His eyes are still closed, and Cain wonders if the man is awake or talking in his sleep.

"I know," he concedes, "but you're one of the only people I have left. I can't lose you. Not like I lost . . ." He trails off, a lump forming in his throat at the thought of his wife. It is still so fresh in his mind, the day he found her grave, the dread that he would find Jeb's nearby.

Cain pulls himself away from his thoughts, finding two dark brown orbs shining up at him, a sheen of tears threatening to spill past a normally carefully calculated barrier.

"You mean that, Wyatt?" Ambrose asks in a rushed whisper, gasping as Cain leans down further so that their torsos lay flush against one another.

The tin man swallows. "I do," he confirms with a nod, barely able to take another breath before Ambrose's fingers are stringing through his hair and pulling him down into a fierce kiss.

Neither of them notice the burst of light that breaks through the ice-encased windows, shattering the prison into thousands of screeching shards.


	6. Sun

AN: Ah, so good to have a story that's finished for once. Now if I could only get the others done.... A project for another day, I suppose! Hope this last chapter is all that you thought it would be! If not...I am truly sorry. This wasn't meant to be a very long fic, and so I didn't make it as such. Though I do think it could have been so much more, if I'd had the time and patience to make it so. Anyway, enjoy this very last installment! Good day to you, Kats and Kittens!

Chapter Six: Sun

It is the brightest that the two suns have ever been. DG and her family have taken advantage of the weather, deciding a picnic and a swim at Finaqua to be the perfect summer outing.

Ambrose is busy disassembling the machine that has caused so much trouble. And Cain is busy . . . doing nothing. He sits at the inventor's desk, "recuperating" and watching the other man work. Jeb has insisted that there is no work for Cain outside the palace walls, and Ambrose has insisted that there is no work for him in the lab.

"Because I don't understand it?" the tin man had asked a little indignantly.

Offering him a patient smile, Ambrose had said, "Because _I_ don't understand it."

And that had been that.

"Ambrose, I can't sit here for much longer," Cain calls, shifting uncomfortably on the work bench.

The inventor glances at the other man over a particularly nasty-looking piece of machinery, his fingers entangled in wires. He hides a smile as he watches Cain reach across the desk and fiddle with a small invention with a red button that makes a rather loud noise when pressed.

Cain's curiosity wins out, of course, and he nearly falls off the bench when the loudest siren he has ever heard sounds in his ears. Ambrose bites his bottom lip, quelling the laughter bubbling up in his throat and attempting an admonishing look before making his way out of the metal jungle.

"Honestly, Wyatt, how am I supposed to get any work done with you making such a ruckus?"

Cain shakes his head, wiggling a finger in his ear before shouting, "_What_?"

Ambrose sighs, turning back to the machine with a nervous look. The tin man notices it immediately and stands, making his way towards the other man. The inventor takes a breath, grasping a large handle and carefully pulling it downward. He winces as it clicks into place, taking a step back to where Cain stands. The device gives a sudden lurch before groaning to a halt. Ambrose holds his breath until the very last cog stops whirring, feeling the tin man's inquiring gaze on him.

"I think that's it," the inventor says breathlessly, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Really?" Cain asks, a grin forming on his own face. "That's it?"

"Ozma, I hope so," Ambrose laughs airily, jumping into the other man's awaiting arms. Cain swings him around, laughing as the inventor holds him tighter.

Warm sunlight filters in through the windows, reflecting off the dust wafting from the red, billowing curtains as the two dance to music that only they can hear.

_End._

AN: Ah, sweet _fin_. How thee drips from these lips with such.... Yes, that is quite enough of that. Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side. :)


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